Unless your church group bought up all the tickets, this is incredibly presumptuous and rude.
"Ilhan Omar SLAMMED! for criticizing video showing people singing Christian songs on plane," read a headline from the New York Post—emphasis mine—that doubled as the starting gun for what's sure to be a typically non-stupid week in this country. Did the Minnesota congresswoman critique the musical quality of the performance? Did she say these Christians are infidels? Did she even suggest you shouldn't subject people confined for hours to a small metal tube to a concert there's no indication they signed up for? Well, no. Keep your garden and lawn thriving—without breaking the bank. Whether you want a permanent or portable audio setup, no moment outside should be spent without a soundtrack. It was the last month of 2020 and the end to the pandemic was finally in sight. We watched as healthcare workers pulled up their sleeves, their faces smiling behind masks, as needles full of Covid-19 vaccines emptied into their arms. First it was nurses in New York City, then local news stations aired their own frontline workers getting the shot. It felt like a real turning point—we'd all have our turn to get the shot and this painful chapter would be behind us. But, it turned out, it wouldn't be that simple. Remember: Fiscal responsibility was, is, and always will be the coolest look of them all. Because every season is boots season. I'm not a bad drunk. I don't throw fights at the bar. I don't cry when I drink wine. I won't corner you at a family party or force shots down your throat. I'm a lightweight. If I drink too much, I throw up. And as much as I love that immaculate feeling of a drink knocking my lights out–for me, it's my fourth whiskey–I really hate throwing up. But, partly thanks to the pandemic, and the work required to keep a romantic relationship intact during several months in quarantine, I've discovered I have a drinking problem. We call him Gloominick. He's a sneaky little turd. He waits until the next morning to come around. Mean, mopey, futzy, and, during those particularly rough hangovers–you know, those News Year Day-style hangovers–fully apocalyptic. "Go away, Gloominick," my fiancée will say. "Go to your room." |
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